*
Funny, Draco thinks. He's the pale one. He's the one who's just had his father die on him, and there Potter is, all white-faced and shit-headed, but his cheeks are dry enough underneath Draco's fingers. Draco thinks that he'll throw Potter out of his room if Potter even so much as says a single fucking word.
"So this is the boy I killed Voldemort for."
"He killed your father too."
Draco's suddenly crying too hard to say anything back, to throw Potter out.
*
They're using the Chinese tea set today. A girl on a bridge waits for her lover. Skims one tiny, tiny foot on the water underneath, and carp come up to nibble on her slipper toe, but it'd all be more convincing if she wasn't just two colors. Blue paint on white porcelain, and entirely too vivid. When Draco looks up, his mother's eyes look especially pale.
Stone-hard, though, and she says to him, mildly, "I hear Potter's been visiting you."
The lights are still dim -- his eyes can't take that much light, still, but there's a yellow lamp burning dully on the bedisde. Makes everything yellow, so his mother almost looks blonde.
"He has. Bawls on my shoulder, and I have to throw him out."
She puts her cup down on the little folding tea-table she brought, and the house-elf scurries forward to take fill the teacup. Another's got the silver tray with the sugar and cream, but Narcissa lets them stand there for a little while.
"Be careful, will you?" she says, not looking at him.
"You're the one who didn't want me going to Durmstrang." Draco doesn't look at her either when he says this. Keeps his eyes fixed on the tent.
"I know," she says and looks down at the floor. Not much of a floor since they just put the tent up over some grass, and the little silver beaded slippers she's wearing underneath her gown have grass stains on them now.
The house-elf is not looking at anything in particular, and Draco rests his eyes on the little tuft of hair on its shriveled head. Ugly little creature. It's even got wrinkles on its scalp.
"Do you regret going to Hogwarts? You don't have to go back in the fall if you don't want to."
Draco smiles, once. He takes a sip of his tea and says, "We'll see."
*
The air is too bright to see in, so full of electricity that all the hairs on his back are standing up. He can't even see, really. Just blue-white light, all around him, and it'd be like some vision of the afterlife if it weren't for the fact that it was sleeting on him, that he's quite possibly gone blind from going outside before he was supposed to.
Sleeting. In June. Imagine that. Voldemort dies, and the weather system gets all wacky.
The blue-white passes, and Draco thinks he sees the outline of a tree. Branches, and slowly, with the mud starting to suck at his toes, the outline of the tree, but why the fuck is everything so blurry? He can make out light and shapes now, but he can't even see his hands if he holds them up to his face. Fuck. Fuck.
Something pulls itself out of the trunk of the tree.
"Get any closer, and I'll kill you," Draco yells into the rain and sleet burning down his back.
"You don't even have your wand," the something says. "And it's me, Harry."
Of course it is. Doesn't the little shit realize that Draco recognizes his voice? Six years and the past week with Harry talking to him in the darkness, fuck, he'll have that voice in his ears until he dies.
"What, you think I don't want to kill you? I've wanted to for years, you know. Might just strangle you with my bare hands."
"You would've waited until Voldemort killed me, and then you would've killed him."
"Excuse me, Mr. fucking Potter. I wasn't exactly thinking rationally at the time. My father, you may remember, had just bitten it in a rather spectacular, explode all over the room way."
Isn't it enough he killed Voldemort? What the fuck else does he have to *do*? Kill himself?
The idea makes Draco slightly giddy and more than a little hysterical. "What do you want now, Potter?"
"I came out looking for you after your mother said you went running out of the tent like a bat out of hell."
"You met my mother?" Draco is shocked enough to be almost polite. "What did she say?"
"I don't think she knew it was me. She was kinda hysterical at the moment, what with them pinning down the last of the Death Eaters and her worrying that there were some more out here waiting for you."
Draco runs a hand through his hair, rubs his face with both hands, and tries to see Harry again. Still no luck -- it's all one giant blaze of light and shadow.
Harry says, voice coming from a little closer in the stinging sleet, "Fuck. Do you have any idea where you've run to? We're miles from camp."
"How the hell should I know? I'm the one who's going blind."
"Liar." Harry says. Closer now. Arm's reach away, although Draco can only make out the profile, outlined as a haze of light whenever there's presumably lightning in the sky. "You are not, you lying son of a bitch. "
Draco actually finds this funny because, really, that's all he is now. His mother's all he's got left, but the touch of Harry's hand at his elbow, on his shoulder, then on his cheek. The fingers are burningly hot, like Harry's feverish, but Draco suspects that's just because he, himself, is on the verge of hypothermia. His heart's beating funny, too. Off-rhythm. Thumping on all the wrong beats.
"You're just near-sighted now. Like I am. *Lumos*."
And Harry's face suddenly jumps into focus. Face is a little too round, the cheekbones aren't very high, and the nose is so fucking common. Draco can suddenly see even the pores on Harry's skin, the black lashes stuck together from the rain, and a little chunk of half-melted ice on Harry's cheek, slipping down. No colors, though. You can't see colors in the dark.
"You look fucking awful," Draco adds.
"You look like a ghost."
"Maybe I am. I don't belong in this world anymore."
"You killed Voldemort. I always thought I was going to be the one to do it, but you did it. This's your world; you made it. Won't you stop bitching for five seconds?"
Draco snorts with laughter. "No. And, by the way, since this is my world, I'd like for my father to *not be dead*."
Harry's so close now that Draco can feel him, myopia or not, as this flat front of heat hovering millimeters from his skin. He can practically *feel* how wet Harry is. Soaked to the skin from the sleet, still burning hot.
"No can do, Draco boy. He died before you killed Voldemort -- that's took place in Voldemort's world. Shoulda killed him a couple seconds earlier."
Draco stops for a moment, smiles in this deadly silence where he listens to his heart stop now that the secret thought that's been lingering in his throat for days is out in the open.
"What the fuck is saving the world good for then?" Draco says, voice breaking and swaying on suddenly tired feet, just as there's a peal of thunder out loud enough to make them both deaf for a moment. In the sudden, timeless and utterly different silence afterwards, Harry leans forward and tries to show Draco, with his lips and hands and a heart that's beating hard enough for both of them, that there are some things you don't need to see for, things you don't need the world for.
*
Fanfiction authors are like delicate potted plants. We wither without the water of your reviews -- or some shit like that.
Funny, Draco thinks. He's the pale one. He's the one who's just had his father die on him, and there Potter is, all white-faced and shit-headed, but his cheeks are dry enough underneath Draco's fingers. Draco thinks that he'll throw Potter out of his room if Potter even so much as says a single fucking word.
"So this is the boy I killed Voldemort for."
"He killed your father too."
Draco's suddenly crying too hard to say anything back, to throw Potter out.
*
They're using the Chinese tea set today. A girl on a bridge waits for her lover. Skims one tiny, tiny foot on the water underneath, and carp come up to nibble on her slipper toe, but it'd all be more convincing if she wasn't just two colors. Blue paint on white porcelain, and entirely too vivid. When Draco looks up, his mother's eyes look especially pale.
Stone-hard, though, and she says to him, mildly, "I hear Potter's been visiting you."
The lights are still dim -- his eyes can't take that much light, still, but there's a yellow lamp burning dully on the bedisde. Makes everything yellow, so his mother almost looks blonde.
"He has. Bawls on my shoulder, and I have to throw him out."
She puts her cup down on the little folding tea-table she brought, and the house-elf scurries forward to take fill the teacup. Another's got the silver tray with the sugar and cream, but Narcissa lets them stand there for a little while.
"Be careful, will you?" she says, not looking at him.
"You're the one who didn't want me going to Durmstrang." Draco doesn't look at her either when he says this. Keeps his eyes fixed on the tent.
"I know," she says and looks down at the floor. Not much of a floor since they just put the tent up over some grass, and the little silver beaded slippers she's wearing underneath her gown have grass stains on them now.
The house-elf is not looking at anything in particular, and Draco rests his eyes on the little tuft of hair on its shriveled head. Ugly little creature. It's even got wrinkles on its scalp.
"Do you regret going to Hogwarts? You don't have to go back in the fall if you don't want to."
Draco smiles, once. He takes a sip of his tea and says, "We'll see."
*
The air is too bright to see in, so full of electricity that all the hairs on his back are standing up. He can't even see, really. Just blue-white light, all around him, and it'd be like some vision of the afterlife if it weren't for the fact that it was sleeting on him, that he's quite possibly gone blind from going outside before he was supposed to.
Sleeting. In June. Imagine that. Voldemort dies, and the weather system gets all wacky.
The blue-white passes, and Draco thinks he sees the outline of a tree. Branches, and slowly, with the mud starting to suck at his toes, the outline of the tree, but why the fuck is everything so blurry? He can make out light and shapes now, but he can't even see his hands if he holds them up to his face. Fuck. Fuck.
Something pulls itself out of the trunk of the tree.
"Get any closer, and I'll kill you," Draco yells into the rain and sleet burning down his back.
"You don't even have your wand," the something says. "And it's me, Harry."
Of course it is. Doesn't the little shit realize that Draco recognizes his voice? Six years and the past week with Harry talking to him in the darkness, fuck, he'll have that voice in his ears until he dies.
"What, you think I don't want to kill you? I've wanted to for years, you know. Might just strangle you with my bare hands."
"You would've waited until Voldemort killed me, and then you would've killed him."
"Excuse me, Mr. fucking Potter. I wasn't exactly thinking rationally at the time. My father, you may remember, had just bitten it in a rather spectacular, explode all over the room way."
Isn't it enough he killed Voldemort? What the fuck else does he have to *do*? Kill himself?
The idea makes Draco slightly giddy and more than a little hysterical. "What do you want now, Potter?"
"I came out looking for you after your mother said you went running out of the tent like a bat out of hell."
"You met my mother?" Draco is shocked enough to be almost polite. "What did she say?"
"I don't think she knew it was me. She was kinda hysterical at the moment, what with them pinning down the last of the Death Eaters and her worrying that there were some more out here waiting for you."
Draco runs a hand through his hair, rubs his face with both hands, and tries to see Harry again. Still no luck -- it's all one giant blaze of light and shadow.
Harry says, voice coming from a little closer in the stinging sleet, "Fuck. Do you have any idea where you've run to? We're miles from camp."
"How the hell should I know? I'm the one who's going blind."
"Liar." Harry says. Closer now. Arm's reach away, although Draco can only make out the profile, outlined as a haze of light whenever there's presumably lightning in the sky. "You are not, you lying son of a bitch. "
Draco actually finds this funny because, really, that's all he is now. His mother's all he's got left, but the touch of Harry's hand at his elbow, on his shoulder, then on his cheek. The fingers are burningly hot, like Harry's feverish, but Draco suspects that's just because he, himself, is on the verge of hypothermia. His heart's beating funny, too. Off-rhythm. Thumping on all the wrong beats.
"You're just near-sighted now. Like I am. *Lumos*."
And Harry's face suddenly jumps into focus. Face is a little too round, the cheekbones aren't very high, and the nose is so fucking common. Draco can suddenly see even the pores on Harry's skin, the black lashes stuck together from the rain, and a little chunk of half-melted ice on Harry's cheek, slipping down. No colors, though. You can't see colors in the dark.
"You look fucking awful," Draco adds.
"You look like a ghost."
"Maybe I am. I don't belong in this world anymore."
"You killed Voldemort. I always thought I was going to be the one to do it, but you did it. This's your world; you made it. Won't you stop bitching for five seconds?"
Draco snorts with laughter. "No. And, by the way, since this is my world, I'd like for my father to *not be dead*."
Harry's so close now that Draco can feel him, myopia or not, as this flat front of heat hovering millimeters from his skin. He can practically *feel* how wet Harry is. Soaked to the skin from the sleet, still burning hot.
"No can do, Draco boy. He died before you killed Voldemort -- that's took place in Voldemort's world. Shoulda killed him a couple seconds earlier."
Draco stops for a moment, smiles in this deadly silence where he listens to his heart stop now that the secret thought that's been lingering in his throat for days is out in the open.
"What the fuck is saving the world good for then?" Draco says, voice breaking and swaying on suddenly tired feet, just as there's a peal of thunder out loud enough to make them both deaf for a moment. In the sudden, timeless and utterly different silence afterwards, Harry leans forward and tries to show Draco, with his lips and hands and a heart that's beating hard enough for both of them, that there are some things you don't need to see for, things you don't need the world for.
*
Fanfiction authors are like delicate potted plants. We wither without the water of your reviews -- or some shit like that.